I Must Go On
by themarchgirl
Summary: Elissa Cousland searches desperately for the cure for the Calling, refusing help from her husband, her friends and the resourceful Inquisition. But as the Calling creeps up on her, she finds herself needing more assistance than she anticipated. Alistair/Cousland, set post-Inquisition.


The mountains are quiet tonight, a stillness settling over the rocky peaks like a heavy blanket. Elissa's cave of choice is nestled between two slopes, with a treacherous path leading to it across slabs and crooks that she's surprised to have been able to traverse. Even with such an isolated and protected spot, the silence is unsettling. The usual high-pitched whistle of the northern wind does not shoot past her ears, rustle through her clothes like it should.

No sleep tonight.

Even with the comfort of an indifferent landscape continuing on around her, the song is… too loud. Leliana's letter and her scouts had confirmed her suspicion that the sudden, all-eclipsing crescendo she and her colleagues buckled under two years ago was unusual, as well as its timely pause as the news of Corypheus' defeat reached her. But it has been nearly fifteen years since her lips touched the Joining chalice and the Blight began its wicked residence in her blood. It is still only murmurs in her ears. It is sufficiently loud to cause her desperate search for a way out.

She wishes – she wishes she had known. When Duncan hurried her away from burning Highever the Wardens were the only destination she knew. There was nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. No other choice.

But now, with scars on her face and grey in her hair before her thirty-fifth summer, she begins to regret. She has done so much. She has led legions of Wardens into the Deep Roads and back out, thaigs reclaimed. She has cut down two hundred hurlock alphas twice her size. She has captured three talking darkspawn, coaxed information from their trembling, rotting lips and then slit their throats. Fifty slobbering ogres. It has always been satisfying. Each time her weapon pulls life from the growling, clambering filth that are darkspawn, it is easier.

She still remembers the rush, the roar, the energy battering its way through her as she slammed her sword into the Archdemon's heart. She had been sure she was dying. And yet. A magic, a witch she does not understand, but (still) trusts entirely, kept her on the living Earth.

Is it selfish? To live? To _want_ to live?

Her husband waits for her on his lonely throne. Their correspondence is regrettably sparse, mostly assurances of their health. When she finds something in her research she scribbles it in a worn journal, for him to read when she returns. An elaborate chain of scouts and merchants currently connect the King and Queen of Ferelden. There is too much room for curiosity; their letters do not breathe a word of location, nor her work. For her to have come so far and to be slaughtered in an Anderfels cave by greedy bandits – no. She must preserve herself, or her progress and isolation mean nothing.

She's close. She can feel it.

Grand Enchanter Fiona no longer has the Blight. Avernus is unnaturally old, even for a normal human man. Her first stop after leaving Denerim was his study in Vigil's Keep, sat at his desk and whispering over his notes. He himself was unsure – his blood magic abilities were certainly involved but he knew not how. Every time he commandeered the power of his blood and his magic he felt his life extend.

She wished, for the first time in her life, to be a mage.

She knew the ways that the Fade corrupted those whose physical bodies entered and left it so many centuries ago – everyone did. But there were only stories. And Corypheus, the only known Blighted magister, was rightfully destroyed. If only she could understand how the Blight began, how the corruption worked itself into mortal bodies and poisoned, slowly. How it could be undone.

In her cave she has nothing more than a fraying blanket, bedroll, waterskin and cup, as well as her papers and sword. Her health potions have run out; luckily the last one took care of a nasty fracture in her finger as well as stomach pains from her attempt to consume deepstalker meat. She is healthy. But another violent encounter – with darkspawn or something else – would be best avoided.

Weisshaupt is near. This she knows. But the Wardens there are unnervingly unemotional, blindly following invisible orders that never seem to lead to anything. She has stayed at Weisshaupt twice, called for 'Warden meetings' that never occur. Every time she left wary and bemused. Her Wardens feel like an order of their own, and she is thankful. The warriors, rogues and mages that she trained herself are her family. They deserve to do good work and see its results. She never hesitates to remind them of the importance of their work.

The Anderfels are overrun with darkspawn; the first of the Deep Roads to fall to the agents of the Blight. Every cave that is not a mere crevice in the face of a mountain must be ignored, in case darkspawn begin to pour out behind your bedroll while you sleep. This has happened once; she sustained a broken arm and a worrying spine injury that left her bedridden for weeks. Her work progressed markedly during this period, aided by her delirious note-taking and re-reading.

She calls her current project a 'journey', despite there being no physical destination. She moves every three days, destroying all evidence of her stay and travelling only at night. She has resided in this cave one night. It is ten feet deep and twelve feet wide. She aches from sleeping curled up against the wall, one hand clasped around the hilt of her sword and the other clutching a dagger under her bedroll. Sleeping lightly for months is taking its toll, making her easily frustrated. She fights better, but she wishes it were not so.

There is still no wind, no air movement outside of her cave. It is strange. The whole world seems on the precipice of a great leap, or a great fall. Wryly, she thinks to herself that if she sat up too fast in the morning she might fall out of her cave. One arm is clasped to her chest, her fingers picking at a scab on her shoulder. Her hair, burned red in the Orlesian sun as she travelled towards the mountains three months ago is knotted tightly around her head, mussed by the repeated shoving on and pulling off of her hood. Her skin peeled when she first arrived in the mountains, leaving her skin browner. The sun never shone brightly enough over the muddy plains of Ferelden for her to experience such a thing before. She likes it; it reminds her of the dark, glowing skin of that beautiful Isabela who cheated at cards at The Pearl, of Duncan's kind, worn face. Her tanned skin is a mere imitation of them, but it allows her to revel in memories of being around others, of having guidance. Her skin is paling now; her time spent mostly in the dark with dim candlelight does little to sustain the colour. Her eyes travel now over her wrinkled hands, her bitten nails.

A noble-born Queen, ageing quickly in the dark of an Anderfels cave. It seems almost romantic.

Her notes are crumpled from her constant touching, fingering, worrying. There are some blood stains, places where her desperate tears have blurred her scrawled words. She looks at them now, re-reading. _Fade. Blight is corrupted magic from the Fade? Magisters brought something out of the Fade? What did they do in the Fade?_

The Inquisitor had penned another letter to her about a month after she slew Corypheus, thanking her for the belt and her initial reply. Although Elissa had been honest about her lack of expertise on Warden lore, the Inquisitor sent her a long report about the darkspawn magister, including some of his malevolent vows made during conflicts with the Inquisition.

 _For I have seen the throne of the Gods, and it was empty._

Biting her lip, Elissa flicks through the makeshift pile in her hands until she finds the loopy script of the Inquisitor. The letter had arrived outside of her usual channels, the scout who she met nervously informing her that he wasn't sure who had sent it.

The claw marks that had made folds in the envelope made her smile.

'Do not worry. I believe Nightingale's crows delivered this one.' She had squeezed the scout's shoulder. 'Your wariness is welcoming. I thank you.'

He had bowed hurriedly, handing over the rest of her letters from under his cloak and walking away.

By her usual channels this report would have been an extremely reckless endeavour by the most powerful woman in Ferelden and Orlais. But Leliana's connections were entirely secure – Elissa greedily devoured the Inquisitor's report. _He was gigantic, your Grace, twice my height. I could not describe his appearance any other way than Blighted. His body seemed to be made up of red lyrium and his skeleton. He seemed intent on frightening, and I would be foolish to say it did not work._

Inquisitor Lavellan described the darkspawn's reliance on demons and blood magic – _his tendrils of power took hold through sacrifical rituals and brainwashing. It reeked of Tevinter._ That had made Elissa smile sadly. Wariness of the magisterium was universal across Thedas, but only the elves knew the full extent of Tevinter injustice. _There was an incident with time magic – I was briefly transported one year into the future with one of my companions. Red lyrium grew out of every possible orifice. It grew within and from people. A contact of my inner circle believes that red lyrium is blighted lyrium. Perhaps we faced a constructed Blight – he appeared to be accompanied by an Archdemon but turned out as nothing more than a corrupted dragon. The little we know about the Blight itself concerns me, your Grace. Warden Stroud, who we sadly lost at the skirmish at Adamant, implied to me that the Warden order is particularly secretive. But surely, it has been long enough, the Blights have caused enough death, that we should expand the study out of Weisshaupt?_

Elissa heartily agreed. But she did not know how much weight she truly pulled in the Warden fortress. She had hastily replied.

 _Truly, my lady Inquisitor, I wish I could storm into Weisshaupt and demand that the First Warden and his compatriots hand over everything we know. But it is as secretive as you say. I am afraid I would rather not share what (little) I know unless we were in the same room. And I am too close to the goal that I described to you to turn back now._

 _I will say that my research has led me to consider the involvement of the Fade itself. I hear that you are a mage and your expertise would be valuable. The stories say that you yourself went into the Fade – physically! I am considering that something came out of the Fade with the Tevinter magisters that should have remained there, but perhaps merely entering and exiting the Fade whilst conscious is a corrupting act. Do you feel different? Changed?_

 _As always, I thank you for your protection of Ferelden and its King. I would return to him as soon as I can._

She'd handed the letter to the scout three months ago. Nothing has arrived in response. She occasionally considers the benefits of a reply, but it is not surprising. She recalls the letters she would spend hours writing to Teryns and Banns as part of her queenly duties. Alistair had twice as many. Royal life often seemed to involve endless letter-writing. Looking at her sparse belongings and parchments, she finds herself missing it.

Sighing, Elissa sets down her papers next to her bedroll and rests her chin on her knees. It is still too quiet. She dislikes it immensely. The sound of constant movement outside is far more comforting than the deafening silence surrounding her now. She feels the urge to stretch her legs but is reminded of the twenty-foot drop to the somewhat flat terrain of the mountain 'path' below her cave. She could brave the uneven surface of the mountain face that propelled her upwards. The idea of crouching in this tiny hole for another night is unwelcome. But something feels very wrong.

A shuffling near the entrance of her cave sends a thrill of fear racing through her. Her sword is too big to brandish in this space but a movement to grasp her dagger would cause her to make noise of her own. Elissa bites her lip, hard, and breathes through her nose. She will not die now. The choke point of the entrance to the cave is extremely advantageous – a mere shove to the intruder would send them, and anyone behind them, flying backwards to sure injury. She anticipates another shuffling sound correctly and her hand finds the hilt of her dagger. Even the most gifted assassin cannot be silent whilst scaling a steep rocky face. Her sitting position allows her to lean her weight forwards onto her feet. She is ready to leap.

Sure enough, a shadow falls over the entrance, blocking the dim moonlight. Elissa licks her lips. _Come on, then. Don't keep me waiting_ , she thinks to herself.

A long-fingered hand curls around the side of the hole. _Not yet_. Something pointy moves into the open space. _One more inch…_

A head. She lunges.

And is thrown backwards. The intruder was expecting her. A male, slender and quick, has her shoved against the floor of her cave, hand over her mouth as she struggles.

She's a warrior; shoving against enemies, shoving into enemies is what she knows, what she does. And yet someone unwelcome pressed so close to her now ignites true panic. _No. No. Not now. A blade to my heart. My throat. Quick, silent. Not the way I wanted…_

'My Queen, you must be still.'

The rich Antivan accent indeed stills her. Velvet tones and faint cologne are a second clue.

Her eyes, which were wide with fear before, narrow.

She can hear the intruder's smirk. 'Better. If I let you up you must promise not to kill me.'

She lets go of her dagger. His hand loosens over her mouth and he lets his weight fall back onto his knees. Slightly.

'Promise?' His eyes are glinting. She rolls hers and nods. 'Excellent. I would remove myself from you, my dear, but you've found yourself quite the little hovel. I can't quite move. Is this how Alistair feels?'

She nips at his fingers until they glide away from her lips. 'It's not that small. And, no, because Alistair doesn't sneak up on me in my very secure hideaway and scare me half to death, Zevran.'

Her old friend grins broadly and smoothly lifts himself away to lean against the wall of the cave. 'Ah, you've missed me.'

'Maybe.' But his face is such a welcome sight that she cannot help the smile that spreads across her face. 'I don't want to know how you found me. Actually, I do, because that means there are more people than I would like who know where I am.'

Zevran's demeanour instantly moves from his normal flirtatious to his more exclusive friendly and warm. 'Do not worry. I have been keeping correspondence with our dear Leliana.' Now sheepish. 'And following you.'

'Of course you have,' Elissa sighs. 'Well, it must have been terribly boring, which means you need me for something important. What is it?'

He looks away, to out of the cave. His silence, like the landscape's which preceded his arrival, makes her nervous.

'Zevran?' She asks quietly, her fingers worrying the fraying hem of her bedroll. 'Please, my friend. Tell me.'

His responding smile is more of a grimace. 'You will not like this.'

'Oh.'

'It is... nobody is in danger. But it is potentially urgent,' he says. He is clearly uncomfortable.

'Zev, if you don't spit it out immediately I'll take back my promise not to kill you.'

He laughs, lines around his eyes crinkling. 'There she is. Commander of the Grey. Queen of Ferelden. Impatient as ever.'

'Zevran.' She takes his arm. Digs her fingers in.

'It is… in regards to your husband.'

'What?' Both her hands grip his arm now. 'Is he well? Tell me he is well.'

Her mind works instantly, cogs turning to construct an image of her Alistair clutching his hands to his ears, the song too loud, can only mean one thing –

'No, no, he is well!' Zevran gently pries her hands from his arm and takes them in his own. She relaxes slightly, still regarding him warily. 'But it is he who sent me.'

She frowns. 'Explain.'

'He is…' Zevran hums over his next words. 'Alistair is preoccupied.'

Elissa tilts her head. 'You said he was well.'

'Oh, he is! He is still our young King, training well, hating court.' Zevran waves his hand. 'But he has become extremely concerned, of late. He is anxious, more so than even a King should be.'

Elissa breathes out heavily. 'He wants me to come home.'

Zevran nods.

She runs her hands through her hair and presses them against her neck. 'Zev – I'm so close. Just a few more months – '

'You've been gone three years, my dear,' Zevran says kindly. 'What are you accomplishing out in Maker knows where that you cannot do in Ferelden?'

'Everything!' she cries. 'I cannot be Queen, command the Wardens and do this! It requires all of my focus, my research. You do not – you do not understand, I must remain until my work is complete! If I go back – '

She breaks off abruptly. She had, of course, in her darkest and loneliest nights, considered giving up and going home. The loss of Alistair's constant presence is becoming more and more of a handicap as the years without him passed. Just to see his face, to feel his strong arms surrounding her, his mouth on hers…

'If you go back?' Zevran prompts. Her head drops into her palms.

'If I go back,' she whispers. 'I will never leave.'

He stares at her for several moments, before nodding to himself. 'Yes, I understand.'

'A Queen cannot secretly search for a cure for the Calling,' she continues quietly. 'A Queen… I will have my duties, state visits. It is too much. And a Commander of the Grey – it would be easier, perhaps. But I am a proactive Commander. I have never led less than ten skirmishes a year. That takes planning and – and _time_ , Zevran!'

He says nothing, waiting patiently for her true point to make itself known.

'I am running out of time, Zev,' she murmurs, leaning her head back against the wall of the cave. 'And if I am running out of time, then so is Alistair.'


End file.
